


everybody wants to rule the world

by raewastaken (IWriteLove)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FakeHaus, M/M, Pre-FakeHaus, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWriteLove/pseuds/raewastaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce goes silent, watches James leave back through his window, make his way out to his shitty, beat up truck, and drive off, while Bruce is left with an emptiness in his chest, and gnawing in his brain that tells him it’ll be okay. He pulls up the sleeve on his jacket, and stares down at James' name in dark letters against his skin, and feels the tears come to his eyes again.</p>
<p>Bruce doesn’t see James again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everybody wants to rule the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minipine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minipine/gifts).



> a birthday fic for my b!!! (kidswivguns on tumblr)  
> james and bruce are so hard to write what is this

James comes to his window at midnight, knocking on the glass quietly, but just loud enough that Bruce, laying back in bed wide awake, would hear. He’s only wearing a t-shirt, that orange one that always looked a day’s wear away from falling apart, despite the fact it was cold outside, with a wild look in his baby blue eyes. Bruce nearly trips over everything rushing to open it, shivering at the wind that blows in as James climbs over the windowsill and moves to stand in the middle of the room. There’s a bruise on his arm, pocket knife clipped onto his belt loop, and his shoes are caked in mud that Bruce will have to clean out of his rug later, but he’s not concerned about that right now. “James, dude, what the fuck?”

James lets out a breath, running a hand through his short hair. It had been hastily chopped off, recently, Bruce adds in his head, because he didn’t look like this yesterday in school, when James left stupid Valentines in his locker, and kept passing annoyingly bright highlighted notes. Bruce eyes the pocket knife on his belt. “I’m leaving,” James says quickly, nearly silently, voice catching in this throat, and all at once, Bruce’s best friend, who’s normally so excited and happy, crumbles. He snaps his focus back up on his face. “I-I’m finally getting out of here.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to say. Words weigh on his tongue, heavy, but he can’t say a single one, because he doesn’t know how. He knows things were bad for James, knows that he was at his breaking point all the fucking time, and he tried his best to give him reasons to stick around. He always expected this to happen, though, for James to finally leave, pack up when he can and drive as far from Vice City and his family as he could. Bruce doesn’t want to see him go. He doesn’t want to lose his best friend into the unknown outside this town. He still doesn’t know what to say. Everything left unsaid for years piled up in his chest. “James-”

“I… They talked about sending me away, anyway,” he interjects. He doesn’t want to hear what Bruce wants, no  _ needs _ , to say. He’s frantic, and looking away. His eyes won’t meet Bruce’s. “At least I’m leaving on my own terms, you know? At least I’ll get to say one day that I chose this, not that they made me do anyt-”

“Don’t go,” Bruce whispers. James does look up at that. They share a tense moment, gazes locked, and Bruce can feel the tightness in his throat, the sting behind his eyes, the quiver on his lips. His vision blurs, blurs James’ softening face, and he lets out an ugly sob, moving a hand up to wipe at his eyes and cheeks as the tears start falling. “P-Please, James, don’t go.”

James steps forward, pulling Bruce’s hands away from his face, and pressing their lips together, almost too softly. Bruce feels his heart leap into his throat, feels his chest erupt into flutters and skipped beats, and maybe he’s too eager when he grabs James by the hips and pulls his close, years worth of latent feelings and knowing glances pours over him as he presses them together. The kiss is still soft, almost shy, but there’s a hint of eagerness at the edges of it, and Bruce is ready for that, but James pulls back instead, hands lingering on Bruce’s shoulders. Their faces are close, sharing the same breaths, and Bruce wants to stay in this moment forever. “I have to,” James says softly. It hurts, but not like it would. He’s not sure why. “Bruce, I love you, but I can’t fucking stay here anymore.”

I love you. “You can stay with me…”

James steps back from him. The air around Bruce goes cold, again, and he watches James smile sadly at him, shaking his head. “I have to. At least this way, I’ll have a chance to see you again.”

Bruce goes silent, watches James leave back through his window, make his way out to his shitty, beat up truck, and drive off, while Bruce is left with an emptiness in his chest, and gnawing in his brain that tells him it’ll be okay. He pulls up the sleeve on his jacket, and stares down at Jame’s name in dark letters against his skin, and feels the tears come to his eyes again.

Bruce doesn’t see James again.

 

* * *

 

Bruce doesn’t really think about the steps he’s taken in his life to end up where he is, but he’s grateful for them, nonetheless.

Adam is a great man, and a even better leader, and Bruce, for the first time in a long time, feels grateful he decided to leave the San Fierro police department to pursue less honorable jobs, selling smuggled weapons to small time gangs and the IG company itself out of a decrepit warehouse in Las Venturas. He had watched the turn of time, watched Adam and Peake both go AWOL from IG, watched a small time gang rise to something note worthy, watched himself pack up and follow Kovic and Matt to Los Santos, where they pooled their money, bought a high rise, and started recruiting. They gave Geoff a run for his money, after that, although things sizzled out and became more friendly between Fake AH and Fakehaus (as they started calling themselves, as per drunken Lawrence’s request). His life wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t safe, it wasn’t padded office chairs and a phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, surrounded by people he hated, and a job he was good at, but wanted an out from. But being part of Fakehaus was excitement, it was something to get his blood pumping and get the adrenaline flowing, made him learn not to carry regrets on his shoulders.

Bruce never really got rid of one regret.

He could see the way Spoole always eyed his forearm, where James’ name stayed, never fading away, and he knew the others had questions, comments, concerns. He had given up trying to hide it away with jackets and sleeves, because now it didn’t matter. Bruce was a different man than the boy who kissed his best friend in his room the last time he ever saw him, and James was someone no one knew anymore, including Bruce. The name was just a reminder to Bruce, that he was still out there, and as much as he hated wishing and hoping, he really did wish and hope he’d see him again.

Joel drug him out on an alcohol run that day, chattering constantly about incomes and the heists they recently did, all sorts of things Bruce wasn’t following, because Joel was talking numbers, and Bruce didn’t deal with numbers. They were walking up a small shop street, carrying convenience store bags full of Lawrence’s favorite vodka, and Spoole’s favorite beer, when a small set up stand caught Joel’s attention enough to warrant a pit stop.

The man behind the stand had a baseball cap on, hiding his face for the most part from them, but Bruce could see his smile, stretched out on his lips, and how fit he was under the long sleeve he was wearing. Bruce takes the bags from Joel, as the other man steps forward. “Oh, looking for a new watch?” the man in the baseball cap says. “These are all genuine.”

Joel picks one up, looking over it and frowning. “This isn’t real,” he says, looking at the man. “These have to be the worst knock offs I’ve ever seen.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” the man says. “They’re real.”

“No, they aren’t,” Joel counters quickly. Bruce moves a hand to rub his temples. “These aren’t fucking real. I can tell. You’re selling these plastic cheap piece of shit for the price of something legitimate.”

“Look, asshole,” the man says quickly. Bruce’s eyes snap to Joel, sees him tighten his grip on the watch. “I can tell you’re a snobby rich kid, so go spend your money on something real, if you’ve got such a problem.”

Joel flounders, before he grabs the front of the man’s shirt, knocking his hat off in the process. Bruce almost drops the bags full of alcohol. “I am not a sno-”

“James?”

They both stop, turning to look at Bruce, while he stands there, wide eyed and shocked, hands having to tighten on the plastic handles he was holding. He’d know those eyes anywhere. And the man’s baby blues go wider than Bruce’s, mouth falling open. “H-Holy shit… Bruce?”

 

* * *

 

James was his soulmate. It wasn’t hard for everyone to piece it together after him and Joel brought back a still mildly disgruntled, but more impressed, James. Bruce doesn’t know how he never noticed the curl of his name on James’ collarbone before, but he does now, and he can feel Matt’s knowing eyes on him, sees Spoole rub his wrist where Adam’s name rested. Bruce’s name on his arm has been an enigma since he joined, since he met Matt and Adam, and now they had a face to the name, and no one really knew how to deal with this.

Bruce himself didn’t know how to deal with this.

James looks ready to bolt the moment the guys give them some alone time. He eyes the doors and windows, like jumping from the apartment is a good idea, them being thirty floors up, but doesn’t move from his place in the armchair Matt usually sits in. He’s avoiding looking at Bruce, and hasn’t, since Joel tried to pull him over his table and fight him in the middle of the street, and it unnerves Bruce, as much as he doesn’t mind. There’s a lot hanging in the air between them, though, a lot of unspoken words, a lot of guilt and regret, and it takes ages before James finally speaks up. “How have you been?”

Bruce doesn’t believe the words, at first. He stares at James, who still isn’t looking at him, and scoffs, bitter and angry. “How have I been…” he repeats, but doesn’t phrase it as a question. “I don’t know, James. My best friend bailed on me when I was seventeen, and I’ve spent over ten years having to deal with it. How do you think?”

“I had a good reason for leaving-”

“You didn’t communicate with me at all,” Bruce fires back. “You kissed me that night, and told me you’d see me again, and then you left out my window, and I spent years worried about whether or not I was going to open up a paper and find your name and face attached to an article about your death!”

James looks at him at that, but he’s frowning, brows low. “I wasn’t going to get myself killed.”

“How would I have known that!” Bruce nearly yells. “You didn’t… You didn’t even try! Not once! I was your best friend, and hell, I’m your fucking  _ soulmate _ , but you just disappeared off the face of the earth, and I had to patch the hole in my chest alone!”

It goes silent. Bruce’s chest is rising, and falling, and he feels like it’s going to burst. A familiar ache brings up the sting in his eyes, and the tightness in his ribs, and he won’t cry. Not this time. He’s not seventeen, watching his best friend climb out of his window into the night, watching the red tail lights of his shitty two door disappear down the street. He’s an adult, a grown man, and he’s spent too many tears over James in his lifetime. James is watching him, eyes scanning over him, unreadable and void, before he looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. “For leaving like I did. And for never contacting you afterward. I… I missed you. A lot.”

Bruce goes silent. James watches him again, face blank, but he could see a glimmer of something in his eyes. A glimmer of hope, maybe? He's not sure. But it makes him feel bad, for blowing up. It makes him miss James. He never could stay mad at him long anyway. Bruce sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “You're still an asshole.”

He feels James’ smile on him, before James arms are around him, pulling him close and laughing. “God, you've gotten tall,” he said, pulling back. “Awww, you're taller than me now! And you're not super scrawny, either. Damn, Greene! You really shape up!”

Bruce can't help the laughter, pushing James playfully. “Yeah, now you can’t get the fucking upper hand on me now,” he said. “I'm better at kissing now.”

James blushed and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really?” He asked, crossing his arms. He's gotten cockier. Bruce knows he'll have more than enough time to dissect this new James, who's familiar, but different. “Want to let me take a gander?”

“Never say gander again,” Bruce says, stepping forward and kissing him, hand holding his jaw, sliding his lips against him. It's so much better than when they were teenagers. This was so much better, even if it wasn't any heavier than back then. He pulls back with a grin, feels proud at how dazed James looks for a second. 

“I’ll have to agree with you on that,” James mumbles, smiling. Bruce could get used to this, for sure.

And months later, when their names become synonymous, and they become the duo the crew never asked for, and the crime couple that brings the city to its knees, Bruce doesn't think he minds that, either. 


End file.
